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Payne Yance Mar 31
The first thing I see
when I pull out the top drawer
was the diagnosis. Meds, there you go

it pretty much said that.
I wondered about all the
creative people doing
some remarkable things,
creating and being alive.

Except they all one day
killed themselves.
Van Gogh stood in
the overgrown field before
he shot himself.
Sylvia Plath knelt down
and stuck her head in the oven.
Virginia Woolf grazed the smooth
peebles, thinking about what
she would write about those peebles,
Only to shove them in
her pockets and drown in the Ouse river.

Nearly everyday, I tell myself
I want to be a writer, or an artist-
Both, actually. That’s all I ever
wanted to be, but the fear of
spiraling, and becoming them
Is deeply disturbing.

Yet, I craved for this life,
To paint, and create stories
with a dash of madness
They all did likewise.
elin mair Jan 22
Let’s greet at the Church at Auvers,
And allow gates to uncover
Dewy daisies and dug up skulls
And crystalline spheres full of love.

Let’s meet at the Church at Auvers,
And behold our hearts as lovers
Where the moon glints its purple light
And our youth and fire shine so bright.

Let’s kiss at the Church at Auvers,
And let ourselves rediscover
Golden bulbs of precious life
Of luck and laugh of love so rife.

Let’s wed at the Church at Auvers.
At midnight, unknown, undercover;
Soft moon-kissed skin touching skin,
Lives entwined, lovers with a grin.

Let us leave the Church at Auvers,
And let’s dance across this river,
Towards an ardent red sunrise
Of perpetual paradise.
this is based on the painting by vincent van gogh and the incessant desire to to go to france with my soulmate
Pasquino Jan 13
though just a single name you bear,
you’re faceless with a thousand eyes–
you’re lovers of a shameless prayer
and blameless of a thousand lies,

you will never be aware
that I not plot against your name
and in grand communion swear
dissent from sad and hope-sparse place.

And, if I’m not to leave these shores,
I’ll break and burn your flag
with horrid mortal cry–
you die with me!
A M Ryder May 2020
His command of color
Most magnificent

He transformed the pain
Of his tormented life
Into ecstatic beauty

Pain is easy to portray
But to use your
Passion and pain
To portray the ecstasy and joy
And magnificence of our world

No one had ever done it before

Perhaps no one will again
Thomas W Case May 2020
I slept beneath
a mad hatter moon and
dreamed of a big blue
tarantula swimming in
a yellow moss
covered pond. A rat
terrier passed me a note:
Mercy and love
are
fleeting, they fade away
like the
tangerine sun; they
are lies like
the dead bulls under
a ****** red
Spanish sky.
I asked his name,
"Mendacity" he said,
then turned into a
pack of
cigarettes, no matches,
no lighter…

I drank from the
pond and became a
sunflower.
Vincent shot
me with his
lonely cornfield gun.
He sat down and smoked
his pipe, as crows
lied
lied
lied.
He said with sad, iris eyes,
"It's impossible to ****
a mermaid, or eat
a starry night."
It's the impossibility
of a thing that
drives one
mad;
like a mustang
caught for the
circus, but always
dreaming of escape to
the thundering
fields of its youth.
I saw toothless
orphans throw rooks at
his soul, as those beautiful
eyes saw way too much…
I want to
pound
it in,
drive it dripping
home through the
core
of a rose, to the
bottom
of the tulip. I'll
get drunk on
nectar of the god's, then
reject immortality. (Who wants to live forever?)

There has been a drastic
Mistake.
I see it at the
zoo in the
monkeys caged,
glazed eyes.
No wonder they
throw ****
at people.
"Such lies, " he said.
"The artichoke, avocado, and
algebra; the small of
a woman's back and
the emerald head of
the hummingbird."
"If the artichoke and
avocado are lies" I said,
"then truth is the
tight, tasty, creamy
green line that
refuses to settle or waiver;
delirious, delicious."

"No" he said, as
his hands stroked
that lice ridden
crimson beard.
"It's conception and
growth, then cast
out
****** and naked
cut from the
cord,
and a lifetime spent
trying to return
to the womb, **** first,
but only spilling and
spreading the
nightmare of being,
the fever of living, to
another
sorry soul that didn't
ask for it.
I woke up,
drained the elixir,
and starred at
Vinnie's self portrait,
the one with
bandaged ear, and
I
thought…
Yea,
God is into practical jokes.
Em MacKenzie Feb 2020
I’ve got a secret that lives in my head
no one knows of it, not even me.
It surfaces slow while I lie in my bed
I wish I could sleep peacefully.

Wind is biting my ear, my left side is ice cold,
I’ve turned numb; I’m not even tingling.
A lifetime of bronze and silver, finally received gold,
but to place around my neck; I’m still hesitating.

It’s been a starry, starry night,
with Rhone’s reflection shining bright
and our Irises connect and only ever see light.
Studying sorrow; pain vs. fear,
so I’ll sit back and contemplate for another year,
would you appreciate the sentiment of Van Gogh’s lost ear?

It will be while on the dryest island where I find my lungs filled with water.
It will be collapsed on ground when I finally stand,
and encased and embraced in ice when I start getting hotter.

Promises will be made
and secrets are kept,
you’re inside me as I’m flayed,
exposed and I feel in debt.
You know that I love you,
that I only think of you,
and no one is your equal let alone ever above you.

It’s been so long at Eternity’s Gate,
I missed the Almond’s Blossom; I was too late,
and The Potato Eaters complain with what is on their plate.
Studying sorrow; shame or a tear,
so I’ll sit back and contemplate for another year,
would you appreciate the sentiment of Van Gogh’s lost ear?

I’d jump to paint your shadow
or even draw your outline in chalk,
I’d drag myself behind you even if you were to allow
me the privilege alongside you to walk.
Just appreciating some Gogh.
Thomas W Case Feb 2020
There goes Vincent with
his jagged sky, and
ragged beard.
His cobalt blue are
stained with the glue that should
hold us all together,
but it doesn't.
His sunflowers are lost
on humanity.
When we can't hold
on to what we pretend to love,
we **** it...
Usually in small
treacherous ways,
like apathy or
arrogance.
it's about the under appreciation of artists until their dead.
Anthony Pierre Dec 2019
Its eighteen months since her delivery
Now she is penning odes ostensibly
Crayons in both hands: she is standing tall
What Dada says? "No writing on the wall."

With great care baby writes her graffiti
Not much untouched by her audacity
He tries to compromise with a new book
but baby says, "Daa Daa"; with a stern look

He has to admit the walls are hers now
Filled with scribbles and a chromatic cow
Its her version of Van Gogh's Starry Night
without the stars; a novice oversight

She's more surreal than Salvador Dali
The writing's on my wall: Pure Graffiti
Graffiti: Writing on My Wall
Peter Balkus Aug 2019
The gallery is closing soon,
hurry up,
don't say you will come
another time.

I bet you want to see "Sunflowers".
You say you can wait.

You can? Okay, but
what if they can't?
Written after my visit to The National Gallery in London.
keneth May 2019
brush my lips with more reds
make my smile look alive
let the youth touch my hand
allow the colors to dry

bury my casket along with my sins
and the poems i can never sing
get the black book and the priest
let the funeral of an art begin

brew the finest lies you got
the vengeance of the word
a ghost will haunt your dreams
a ghost that bears your name

the sick truth of a man
sought refuge to a face
a better death; to be betrayed
than drown in yellow paint
i tried swallowing ' happy ' not knowing it's what's gonna **** me / art
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